


The Long Road Home

by girlwithacardigan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bed-sharing, Flashbacks, Gabriel Lives, Hotels, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Metatron Being a Dick, More tags to be added, Rated T for language, Rating is subject to change, Research, Road Trips, The Single Bed Trope, brief descriptions of blood, brief kali/baldur/gabriel, found footage spookiness, gabriel is kind of human, gabriel's incessant flirting, godawful puns, how does one tag, its a work in progress, mentions of threesome, or chuckawful puns should i say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2018-09-11 22:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9036131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwithacardigan/pseuds/girlwithacardigan
Summary: Gabriel spent four months in Metatron's captivity before he escaped and made his way to Lawerence, Kansas, home of the infallible Winchester brothers and their favorite feathered friend, Castiel. Whether it's out of pity or the hope of him providing assistance, he doesn't know, but they take him in.What followed was an epic tale of angels (sometimes even archangels), monsters, and love.(Although that last one took a long time to happen.)





	1. One

He took the basement steps two at a time, balancing the paper plate and Styrofoam cup in his hands. The basement lights flickered on, illuminating a limp shape, lying on its side. Metatron smiled to himself as his shoes thumped the hard concrete of the basement floor. He was in a good mood today; all was well on the angel-Heaven front, and words were flowing from his brain to his fingers to his typewriter like a bubbling stream.  
His captive struggled to sit up. Metatron set the plate of food and the cup on the floor, then unfolded the metal folding chair he had tucked under his arm. The basement air chilled his skin, giving him goosebumps. A smile tugged at his mouth when his keep rolled over, and greedily lifted the cup to his mouth to drink. Errant droplets trickled down the pale-skinned chin.  
‘’Good morning, Gabriel.’’ Metatron cooed gently, and propped his chin in his hand as Gabriel drained the plastic cup, then swiped his tongue over his chapped lips to lick up the last of the moisture. ‘’Metatron. And it’s not a good morning. It’s twenty fucking degrees down here.’’ Gabriel’s voice was hoarse from disuse and dehydration and each word was rasped. The archangel broke into a coughing fit suddenly. ‘’Language, Gabriel. Is that the mouth you kissed your mother with?’’ Gabriel ignored him. He wheezed and sat upright, pulling the paper plate into his lap. On it was leftover lukewarm Chinese-string beans and teriyaki pork, along with fried rice and half a piece of an egg roll. Metatron watched as he hurriedly crammed mouthfuls of the greasy scraps into his maw. The plate was emptied and Gabriel looked up at him; his facial expression reminded Metatron of a starving stray dog begging for food. ‘’I suppose that that’s it, then.’’ Metatron snorted to himself, and perched his wireframe glasses on his nose, opening the thick paperback he had in his vest pocket to a dogeared page. ‘’Food, yes,’’ Metatron leaned back in the rickety chair, crossing his legs and propping the book up on his thigh. ‘’knowledge, no.’’ Metatron always read to him as of late; usually from the classics. He’d been reading Gabriel A Study in Scarlet recently, as the well-loved adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were some of his absolute favorites.  
He read him twenty-two pages before he stopped, dog-earing the page once again and setting it down for Gabriel to continue on his own after he’d left. Metatron rose to a stand, then turned on his heel to fold up the chair. And as he did, his toe caught on the heavy spelled chains binding the archangel; they were almost comically long and looped across the floor. He toppled down to fall on his side. The breath was knocked from his lungs. Had he not possessed his grace, he would be horribly bruised. Gabriel chuckled dryly from behind, grinned in that bastardly way of his. Ungrateful little rat, laughing at me when I’ve been keeping him alive. Metatron frowned and stood back up, then straightened himself. He brushed himself off of the dust that had accumulated on the basement floor, and picked up the chair, plate and cup, and made his way back up the stairs. He set them right outside, and looked back down at the fallen archangel. ‘’Good day, Gabriel. I’ll see you tomorrow.’’  
And he closed the door behind him, scowling and furrowing his brows.  
-  
The sharp point of the fountain pen dug into Gabriel’s hand, but he waited until Metatron had gone to pull it from his sleeve. Gabriel ran a finger along the smooth, shining iron, the elegant flourish of gold trim around the cap. He almost cried. His ticket to freedom was right there, in his hand, waiting.  
The chain that was around his left ankle was long, long enough so he could lap the room if he wished (sometimes he did, when he was going stir-crazy) and was anchored to the floor by a heavy metal square. The chain was attached to the steel cuff, carved with Enochian binding spells, around his ankle.  
Gabriel was ice-cold. And the food, he knew, was laced with drugs to make him sleepy and compliant, so he would undoubtedly start getting drowsy soon. And he was dirty, he hadn’t showered in days, (they gave him two showers a week) his skin was rubbed raw from the cuff, but he used that blessed, beautiful fountain pen to chip and scrape at his restraints. He made a bit of headway until his eyelids start to droop, so he tucked the pen back into his sleeve, curled into a ball, and fell straight asleep, dreaming of gleaming silver and fallen angels.


	2. Two.

When Gabriel woke up, there was a sharp boot in his side, digging into his ribs. Pain rippled up his flank. Pulling his weary body into a slouchy sitting position, he looked upward toward the source.   
An angel he’d never seen before, with dark red hair and thick facial hair scattered across the lower half of his face, dressed in a formal suit and tie, stood over him. With a sneer, he delivered another swift kick to Gabriel’s hip, making him yelp. The redhead’s features contorted into a grin. ‘’Gabriel, time to get up,’’ he crooned, sneering, and pulled his hair, ‘’shower day.’’ He was lifted off his weak legs and dragged up rickety wooden steps. The angel’s grip on his arm was ironclad, and his fleeting thought of attacking him and escaping fluttered away as he caught the familiar glimmer of an Angel Blade tucked into the redhead’s belt. He wouldn’t have a chance. Gabriel lowered his eyes as he was crammed and shoved past various bustling parties, past doors and windows, through an intricate maze of hallways and doorframes. Finally the goon jerked him to a stop, and yanked the door open.  
The bathroom was tiny and painfully clean, almost sterile, like a hospital would be. The angel leaned against the countertop, fingers rubbing against the Angel Blade in an overly obvious warning. Gabriel rolled his eyes once his back was turned. Then he climbed into the shower and turned the water on.  
-  
The door closed with a harsh click. Scowling, Gabriel sat back up so he could rub his bruised arm, discolored from the lackey’s grip. He turned to fish the pen from its hiding spot- a spot of the wall he’d hollowed out with the pen- and clawed the small utensil out. A piece of the silver tip had broken off, but it had still been immensely useful. He’d been scraping and digging at the chain the last three days since he first stole it. Parts had chipped off and broken away and he was getting close to breaking it completely. Freedom was so close he could practically smell it (although that might have just been the probably toxic mold growing up one wall). Gabriel leaned back against the wall and straightened his back, rubbing his sore spine with his palm. Hope had fueled him this far, drenching his thoughts with dopamine, but his hopefulness was fading along with the light that leaked from the door at the top of the stairs. His everything hurt, from his eyes to his neck and back, his sore arm, his cramped fingers…and that was on the physical scale. He felt raw and exposed without his grace; there was a mental image of a torn-up hole taking up the space where his organs should’ve been. Usually his body hummed with raw power Fuck, Gabriel thought to himself, I’m so goddamn tired. He jabs at the hiding place for the pen so he can slip it in. The faux side comes away with a click. He inserted the pen and slid the piece back into its place. Pulling his jacket back over him, shivering from the relentless chill, he finally fell asleep.  
-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's pretty short, I know-only 533 words by my computer's count-but I've been busy due to Christmas and all. I've already got Chapter Three outlined and some work done on it, and it'll be much longer than this chapter, at least 2000 words.   
> Also, I'm looking for a beta! If you're interested, you can contact me at girlwithacardigan@yahoo.com or message me here or on Tumblr, where I'm under the same username. As of right now, I can only access the Internet about once per day due to technical issues, so if I don't respond right away, it's because of the fact I haven't seen it at all. When I do get access, I check all my inboxes first thing, so I can reply as soon as possible, so expect a reply the day after or so.


	3. Three.

2 (roughly) days later For a moment, Gabriel wondered if he was dreaming. The chain lay limply in the palms of his hands, and flecks of rust speckled his hands and fingers. The fountain pen was sitting on his thigh, the sliver tip brushing the top of his knee. The chain link was jagged at the edges, and it lay in two pieces; the bit running from the steel anchor was looped around his feet, and the part he held in his hands was attached to the Enochian cuff around his ankle. He experimentally brushed his fingertips across the sharp edges, and winced when pain sparked from the nerve endings there. He then carefully wound the broken chain around his ankles, tucking the edge into the cuff, then pulled the leg of his jeans across it. Anticipation settled low in his stomach as he stood up, his knees shaking from disuse. He licked his chapped lips. Gabriel took an unsteady step, supporting himself against the wall, and he shot a nervous glance at the door at the top of the stairs; light leaked from the crack at the bottom, occasionally winking out as someone’s shadow flickered across it when they walked past. Any moment, the door could swing open and reveal him, to some lackey, or Dad forbid, Metatron himself. Gabriel shook his head to clear his thoughts. Don’t get paranoid. He turned his head to the far wall, focusing instead on the smooth surface. His legs were weak from not being used for six months, and each step felt as if the energy was being forcefully sucked from him. Shifting his position so his stomach was flush with the wall, he turned so he was facing with said wall. Using his forearms to brace himself, he took staggered, clumsy steps until he was at the adjourning corner. He let himself collapse, twisting around so his back faced the wall. Goddamn, this was harder than he’d expected. Gabriel lifted his fingers to the now-scabbed-over cut on his throat, right below his vessel’s Adam’s apple. He traced the small nick-only two inches long-with the pads of his fingers. It had become a nervous habit, fingering the scar on his neck, because it grounded him; everything else always seemed ridiculously surreal, almost dreamlike, like the just-desserts he’d dished out. Like the Mystery Spot. Gabriel frowned as he rubbed the blemish again. Even as he’d been actually doing it, he’d regretted it; Sam Winchester hadn’t done anything truly wrong, unlike everyone else he’d fucked over, tricked, or swindled. Sure, he’d wanted to teach him a lesson-that was what he did best, after all-but he’d really crossed the line there. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, he knew that the torture he’d inflicted on them was his own twisted way of releasing all his anger, his resentment, his frustration about his brothers. And it scared him, because ever since he’d fled Heaven after Dad had flown the coop, he’d boxed up his emotions and conscience and everything else that got everyone into the whole mess in this place and tried his hardest to forget. He’d changed, Gabriel knew that, and it was for the best anyway because it made him stronger, tougher. (Which were, coincidentally, two things he’d never been in Heaven.) Right? Fuck, the Winchesters had messed with his head. He actually felt regret, for the first time in centuries and eons. Then he’d trapped them in TVLand and then after that he went up against Lucifer, the goddamn Morning Star, who was the second-oldest and always Dad’s favorite, and if he’d been pissed enough, Gabriel could’ve killed him because he had all that raw, unrestrained power just churning inside him, and he’d always wasted it on tricks and little things, but he wasn’t pissed, he was sad because even though Lucifer was a great big bag of dicks, he was Gabriel’s brother and he loved him despite everything Lucifer had done. He dropped his head into his hands, tangling his fingers into his hair. (Everything had been so simple before, but it wasn’t now, it was the polar opposite.) Gabriel pressed his palms against his eyes to prevent tears leaking out. Then he blinked twice and hauled himself back to his feet, scrabbling at the wall for purchase. The stairs were rickety, wood steps, scraped up and somewhat rotted. They were just a set of plain stairs and there was a space behind them, hidden by the supports. He made his way over behind them and crouched in the space behind. The steps themselves were slats of wood, so he could see out. A plan started to form in his mind, a clever plan, the kind he’d taken joy in plotting and executing just a few years ago. Gabriel grinned.

-

Bazael had been having a horrible day, the worst he’d had in thousands of years. First, he’d gotten into a fight the previous night with three angels from Castiel’s Resistance who were investigating ‘angel sightings’ (stupid Periel and her ninny friends going out for a ‘a girl’s night’, whatever that was) and his grace had healed the wounds, but it couldn’t heal his wounded pride. Bazael believed himself to be quite the opponent in combat and when he’d gotten his licks handed to him by a measly group of three, it had taken quite a blow to his pride. He’d returned to his quarters to tend to his wounds afterwards, and despite their best attempts, Bazael had heard the muffled snickers and insults of his colleagues as he passed them. Bazael had joined Metatron’s forces due to his greed for blood and for power; he was bitter and hostile, angry and cold. Even before the Fall of the Angels, he’d been unpleasant; being swindled of his wings and much of his grace only corrupted him more. Metatron seemed the much more logical choice, with a vast army already formed and a battle plan in place. Castiel just seemed like a fool to him, a sentimental fool who never seemed to even remotely grasp the basic purpose of angels and their missions on Earth or in Heaven. His supervisors looked down on him for his impulsiveness and rashness and as punishment he had been placed on guard duty; however, nobody really knew what they were even guarding. Anyone who mustered the courage to inquire had the tendency to disappear and not be seen again. All Bazael knew was the rumors and gossip that sometimes spread-that it was something terrifying and primal, or some powerful weapon or technology Metatron was honing. Even the guards were forbidden to enter the cellar where it was actually kept. Bazael now stood at the door, stiff-backed, expression stoic and unfeeling. He rolled his sore shoulders in an attempt to relieve the ache (it was, sadly, unsuccessful.) Scowling, Bazael crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall. Guard duty was divided into eight-hour shifts; he was three hours in and already he was getting antsy. Bazael shook out his legs and rolled his neck, savoring the popping noise it made. A sudden scream and thump from inside the cellar jolted him from his bored trance, and his hand instinctively went to where his Angel Blade was tucked into his belt. He slid the silver blade from the cincture and carefully pressed his ear against the paneling of the door; a series of low moans and pitiful cries reached his ear. For a moment, he thought of ignoring it, but his ego egged him on to open the door and investigate-perhaps it would lead to glory and honor, maybe a medal or a promotion to being a general of his own garrison… Bazael grinned to himself at the prospect of that and pushed the door open. He descended the steps and scanned the small space. It was concrete and dark, and the yellow light from up above cast a strange, warm glow across the damp cellar. Bazael gripped his Angel Blade in his suddenly-clammy palm as another whine came from the darkness around him and he hesitantly advanced forward. A part of him wanted to turn and bolt back up the stairs as fast as possible and a part of him wanted to go deeper. Predictably (and quite idiotically) Bazael did the latter. He padded around the cold basement for a few minutes before he noticed the silhouette sitting in the corner, curled into a ball. Bazael tightened his grasp on the hilt of his blade. The sobs continued, separated by a low whine and a rapid-fire series of sniffles. Advancing past the back of the stairs, Bazael leaned down to touch the silhouette. His fingers brushed worn, rough cloth. There was a dark green jacket brushing Bazael’s fingers, and he picked it up to examine it. It was grimy with dirt and muck and Father-knows-what-else, but he held it in his fingers as the wheels in his head turned. _How strange,_ Bazael thought. _It was only a jacket_. It just so happened it was his last.

Gabriel swiftly pulled the Angel Blade from the fingers of the dark-haired angel standing only a few away-as he'd predicted, the supports of the stairs had hidden him from sight. He’d balled his jacket up and tossed it into the corner to distract whatever poor sap came down to check on him. The angel turned sharply on his heel, dropping his jacket and opening his mouth to yell for help. Gabriel plunged the Angel Blade into the his stomach before a single syllable was uttered. The angel gasped softly as he wrenched the blade out of his stomach and light exploded from his features and extremities before falling into a crumpled heap. Ash and black dust settled upon the cement in the shape of a pair of once-regal wings. Gabriel flinched slightly as he pulled his jacket from the dead angel’s fingers and around his shoulders, then crammed his arms through the corresponding openings. He tucked the Angel Blade up into his sleeve like he’d done with his Archangel Blade (it felt familiar, cool against his skin, but not as natural as his own Archangel Blade, which radiated grace and raw power to match his own) before he crept up the stairs to leave the basement. Gabriel looked back at the small space one last time before he crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him. 

Soft carpet brushed the soles of his shoes as Gabriel jogged along the length of a hallway, heart roaring in his chest. He carefully pushed a door open, revealing a dusty storage closet, lined with skeletal-looking metal shelves with various objects. Scanning the labels as he side-stepped his way down each aisle until he found what he was looking for.

_Archangel Blade of Gabriel; acquired 12/18/13 Grace of Gabriel (Archangel); acquired 12/19/13_

His heart started to race as he pulled the small silver dagger from the shelf surface, tearing the protective wrapper open and letting it flutter to the floor. Gabriel tucked his stolen grace into his jacket pocket and held the Archangel Blade in his fingers. The silver gleamed in the fluorescent lighting. Gabriel yanked the stolen Angel Blade from the sleeve and placed it in the spot where his Archangel Blade had previously sat. Sloppily tossing the plastic over it, he flicked the light-switch off and closed the door behind him as he left.

Cool night air kissed his face. He fumbled the vial containing shards of his Grace from his pocket and pulled the cork top free. Grace seeped through his pores and flooded his veins like a drug. The familiar hum of power made him feel high, as if he was just created. He didn’t have all of it; some of it, Metatron still had, probably trying to replicate it to use as his own. But it didn’t really matter. Gabriel jogged forward into a desolate field, leaving Metatron’s Victorian-era-style mansion-slash-headquarters behind him.

He flew to a nearby convenience store and shoplifted a map of the continental United States.

Lawrence, Kansas- 1,312 mi.

Gabriel grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2,050 words. In my head, it was originally longer, and the ending's a little rushed, but this is due to me being thrown headfirst into the 'Glee' fandom. (Fuck my life.)


	4. Author's Note- Please Read

I received several messages about the accidental posting of a chapter three times, and have remedied it! Thank you to everyone who messaged me about this to draw it to my attention.   
The next chapter will be up soon, possibly tomorrow- and it's already 2,000 words and about half-finished. There is somewhat of a big time skip in the next chapter, so bear with me.  
Again, thank you to everyone who messaged me about the error and is reading this!


	5. five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE BITCH IS BACK AND I BRING YOU FANFICTION.  
> I had very little time to post, so I'll be back tomorrow to finish formatting with the italics where it's needed.  
> This is the chapter where the Sabriel aspect of the story really starts, so buckle up, kiddies!

_One Month Later_  
It was freezing out and two in the morning, but Gabriel couldn’t wait anymore. And chances were, the sigils and wards that were undoubtedly carved and painted into the walls would prevent him from going within twenty feet of the bunker. All he wanted to do was take a warm shower and eat a decent meal and maybe even get some good sleep in an actual bed instead of a stiff wooden park bench. He planned on doing all those things and then hauling ass to Dad-knows-where before the Winchesters could say ‘hallelujah’.  
And so he knocked, really loudly. Loud enough that both said Winchesters came running, guns drawn, to throw open the door, shoving the mouths of their pistols in Gabriel’s face.  
Both their mouths dropped open as they took in the raggedy archangel in front of them as they dropped their guns; Dean crammed his into the back of the waistband of his jeans, Sam just held it limply by his side.  
‘’Gabriel?’’  
He shrugged in a way that conveyed yes.  
‘’But you-you died. Lucifer killed you at Elysian Fields-he had to’ve. We…we never saw you again, and he kept on tickin’.’’ Dean said slowly, squinting at him like he’s a puzzle that he can’t quite seem to solve. ‘’How…how are you alive?’’ Sam pulled the door open further and let him come inside.  
‘’I mean-I did die. I think someone, probably Dad-or maybe Metatron, I don’t really know-but the latter’s a helluva lot more likely-brought me back, though, since I woke up in Heaven. Hence I fell with all the other winged beauties.’’ Sam cringed. ‘’Jeez, and you’re only getting here now? The angels fell six months ago.’’ Gabriel scowled and pushed past them, pulling off his dirty jacket, then slumping into a chair. ‘’I’m almost out of grace, Einstein. I couldn’t just poof around like everyone else. Metatron’s goons got me. I spent way-too-long in a dark disgusting basemen until I busted out, Alcatraz-style. They took my grace, probably so they could try to replicate it, and I did manage to get bits and pieces back, but not very much. I had to walk here, though I did hitchhike a few times. I fell into Nevada, a few miles outside Vegas and Metatron kept me somewhere in western Utah, close to the border.’’ He remembered it vividly-the fear-slash-anticipation, the leftover adrenaline making his hands shake, the kind older woman who he hitchhiked with through Colorado. She had finally turned south to head to Arkansas, and Gabriel had walked maybe forty more miles, then slept underneath a road sign for four hours.  
He’d been rained on, hungry, tired, filthy, and all-around miserable, but he carried on, one step after the other.  
And it had certainly paid off.  
-  
Gabriel gets that shower. He spent forty minutes under hot, blasting water, scrubbing and scraping months’ worth of dirt and grime from his skin, under his nails. He washed his hair three times. It’s grown longer and unruly; he’d stolen a comb from a little convenience store, along with other supplies, but said comb had later been stolen in a painfully ironic twist when he made the mistake of sleeping on a park bench. The tile is cool under his feet and he watches gray-tinged water tumble and gush down the shower drain. Gabriel scours his body with a wiry loofah until his skin is red and raw. Dean gives him clothes to wear, a pair of soft flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved grey henley, as they wash his old clothes with an entire pint of detergent in an industrial launderer.  
Sam gave Gabriel a hot mug of steaming tea, which he burns his tongue on trying to drink too soon. They sit in the war room, soft yellow light pouring from ornate lamps across the table and fixtures on the brick-lined arches.  
Sam played with a pen trapped between his pointer and middle finger. ‘’So you hid in Heaven after you faked your death, because you were carrying the phony Angel Blade, the one Kali tried to stab you with, so when the fight with Lucifer went down, you faked your death in order to gain the advantage of surprise when you later attacked him. But you didn’t need to because we locked him back in the Cage before you got to him again. When the angels fell, Metatron tried to force you into siding with him because you still had a bit of grace left. You refused and he locked you in a basement, taking some of your grace, then binding you with warded chains, which you eventually broke out of and made your way here.’’ Sam said slowly, eyes flickering from Gabriel’s face to the table as if he can’t decide which is more appropriate to look at. Gabriel nodded. ‘’That’s the CliffNotes version, yeah. I did have enough grace to locate Cassie, which is how I found your top-secret Bat-cave here. I made the mistake of trying to fly most of the way here and exhausted my grace before it could fully recharge. Nice digs, by the way.’’ The bunker seems homely, with its lush rugs and winding hallways and intricate ebony bookshelves. ‘’You’re out of grace? Mortal?’’ Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow, swigging his coffee before slamming the mug against the table again. Gabriel scoffed. ‘’Dad, no. I can’t run out of grace, I just am-‘’ he sipped the warm tea, ‘’running low, shall we say. I have to wait for it to replenish itself, which could take a while.’’ Sam scratched the back of his neck, squinting. ‘’You need to stay here for a bit? Because that’s okay-‘’ Sam was cut off as Dean stiffened suddenly and shot him a sideways look. ‘’-with us. Excuse me, I have to talk to Dean for a moment.’’ Sam motioned to his brother and he loped behind the elder Winchester to the other side of the room. It was obvious they were disagreeing from Sam’s frantic hand-waving and random gesturing, and Dean’s slightly-hostile posture, arms crossed over his chest, manly-man neck muscles bulging. Gabriel sighed internally and sipped more of the sugary, still-hot tea, swiping his tongue over his chapped lips. The drink really wasn’t that bad with plenty of sweetener- perhaps he’d start having it more. He took a moment to scan the room. which was concrete floor save for the red rugs and throws, tall shelves, and short stout lamps, the shades of which were made of what looked to be stained glass. Multicolored light shone from their depths, a kaleidoscope of pigments and hues. Gabriel drank more tea and observed the beautiful lights. He swept his hand across the lamp shade, mesmerized by the way it danced in reaction to the shadows cast by his hand.  
The clearing of a throat brought him back to the present.  
Sam and Dean were standing at the end of the table, Dean looking quite put off, Sam looking smug and prideful. ‘’Well? My fate been decided yet?’’ Gabriel blew air across the surface of his tea, raising his eyebrows as he drained the mug. He set it down gingerly, not wanting to inadvertently break it, pushing it away slightly. Dean huffed. ‘’We,’’ Sam drawled, emphasizing the syllable a little more than necessary, ‘’are perfectly okay with you staying at the bunker for a bit. We’re gonna have to call Cas, though, to check in with him about it. He, uh,’’ the freakishly tall man squirmed slightly, ‘’doesn’t know that’s you’re alive. Yet, I mean. We are going to tell him, just haven’t got the chance-he’s trying to track down some leads on Metatron and his phone is off.’’ He yanked a chair out from the table and flopped into it, too-long arms and legs falling everywhere. His hair fell from where it was tucked behind his ears to hanging in his face limply.  
“Alright, I’m outta here. I am exhausted,” Dean clapped his hands once, “so you two better not wake me up.” The eldest Winchester shuffled off, looking undeniably worn-out. “What bee’s flew into his bonnet?” Gabriel scoffed as Dean disappeared from sight when he shuffled around a corner. Sam shrugged. “He’s probably just going to watch porn for an hour, drink a truckload of beer, and then pass out.”  
The younger Winchester suddenly seemed tired and weary, draped in that ornate chair, like a faded garment worn once too many times. Sam’s posture was lax and droopy, and he reminded Gabriel of a drowsy puppy, like Skip when Gabriel had just fed him and was lounging in front of the fireplace in Gabriel’s old flat, lying on his back, paws stuck in the air, belly exposed for a rub. (Except it wasn’t like that; Skip had always been content and satisfied and happy, and Sam was exhausted and stressed and probably sleep-deprived; there was a major difference.) Gabriel’s heart ached for a moment at the memory of his dog, who had always been so lackadaisy and silly. He’d spent hours just frolicking with Skip, playing fetch and tug-of-war (he’d always had to be careful not to accidentally rip the small dog’s teeth out with his archangel strength) and afterwards, the little Jack Russell would curl up against his side as they lounged, dozing and napping. Dad, he missed such simple things sometimes. Gabriel crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair, causing it to tip precariously; Dean shot daggers at him as if to say, don’t you goddamn dare scratch my polished hardwood floor. He flicked his tongue out at the elder Winchester, who scowled in response before turning away to brood in that way of his. “So, Cassie. When’s he coming back?” Sam was studying his tea in such a focused way that Gabriel had to repeat his question before he even snapped out of it. “Oh,’’ The youngest Winchester murmured, playing with the soggy tea bag, dipping it up and down in the mug before he answered. “Soon. He just got some of his grace back, so Cas is kind of spending some time out on his own for a while. Y’know, getting used to it again and all. Actually, he took being human pretty well while it lasted; I was surprised.”  
Gabriel smiled to himself. “Cassie got his grace back? That’s good.” He stretched his arms above his head and groaned as his neck and shoulders popped. The man across from him gestured at his now-empty mug. “Refill? There’s still plenty of tea in the pot in the kitchen if you want it.” Nod. Sam’s fingers pulled the cup across the table before he got up to walk to the kitchen. The sounds of scuffling and the kitchen tap running reached his ears. He returned a moment later with the mug full, steam rising in semiopaque plumes from the surface. The mug was set in front of him. “Didn’t know how you liked it, so I brought the sugar and creamer.” The small shaker of sweetener, along with a carton of milk came next, sitting adjacent to the teacup. “You know me so well, Sammich.” He teased, pulling the cups toward him to dump copious amounts of sugar into the hot drink, emptying half the milk into the mug. “Damn,” Sam chuckled, “want some tea with that sugar?” A laugh bubbled up in his throat, and he snorted as he stirred it with a little plastic stick. “It’s only good if you sweeten it like there’s no tomorrow.” He lifted the mug, navy with horizontal white stripes, to his mouth to drink. Sam clicked his cup against Gabriel’s in a makeshift toast. They drank from their respective mugs in contemplative silence.  
“One good thing, though,” Gabriel said suddenly. He stood up and gently worked his Blade from the sleeve of the shirt. “is that I got this puppy back.” Cool to the touch and achingly familiar, the Blade glinted in the yellow light from the ornamental lamps. Gabriel played with it carefully, running his fingers across the sword. “Wow.” Sam whistled. “Can I…?” Gabriel smiled. “Sure, bucko.” He walked so he was behind Sam, chest pressed against Sam’s back. His chin touched the bottom of Sam’s shoulder-blades. Cautiously, he reached around the taller man until he could cup his hands in his own. “Hold it like this,” he murmured into Sam’s tee. “It’s heavier than a regular Angel Blade, so be careful. He manipulated Sam’s fingers until they were wrapped around the hilt. Gabriel rose up on his toes so he could rest his chin on Sam’s shoulder. The younger Winchester smelled absolutely divine, like cinnamon and pine and strong aftershave, and Gabriel eagerly drank in the scent. The muscles in his back flexed, and Gabriel shivered as they twitched and rippled against his own chest, warm and strong. All of a sudden he remembered the things he’d picked up from Sam’s head; the puppydog crush, the way his heart fluttered those few times Gabriel actually touched him, and the few, ahem, naughtier things he’d thought about the Archangel.  
He could feel-and hear-Sam’s heartbeat now, actually; it was hammering in the hunter’s chest and his skin was flushed and warm. Maybe he wasn’t running at full capacity Grace-wise, but at least he could still read minds. Experimentally, he parted his lips, tilted his chin down, and breathed hot air against the bare skin exposed by the low neck of his tee.  
The shiver that went through Sam’s body made Gabriel’s nerve ends crackle.  
Sam’s fingers were shaking on the blade, so Gabriel gently pulled it from his hands and tucked it back into his sleeve. “Never held one of those before.” Sam joked, but Gabriel could smell the nervous sweat gathered on his palms. Good Dad, Sam’s head was an absolute mess, guilt and fear and confusion and anger. He could still feel traces of Grace from…was that Gadreel? Why on Dad’s Green Earth was that schmuck’s Grace lingering in Sam Winchester’s veins and soul? He’d have to ask, he decided.  
The moose of a man’s body was held together by sloppy stitches of tattered Grace, and they would hold up, sure, but he was still obviously weakened considerably. It’d probably been a while since Sam had eaten and just the bags under his eyes gave away just how little sleep he was running on.  
Sam looked like death warmed over, and that was putting it nicely.  
Before, he could’ve just gently pressed two fingers to the taller man’s forehead and Sam would’ve been hunky-dory. But now, now, he maybe could clean up the Grace keeping his body running a bit, but that was really it, and even doing that was a stretch. His vessel felt terrifyingly empty and hollow without the vigor of his grace. For the first time in literally all his existence, he was cold and hungry and could bleed and feel pain.  
The clearing of Sam’s throat brought him back to reality. The hunter was giving him sideways looks like he was crazy. “Gabriel? You okay?” He shrugged and chuckled. “Eh. I was dead for…” Gabriel mentally tallied the time he’d spent hiding in Heaven, “four-ish years. So I’m really as good as I can get.” Sam laughed. (So he could laugh. Gabriel had begun to wonder if he was somehow physically incapable of laughing.)  
“Oh, hell, it’s late. I really should get some sleep.” Gabriel looked to check the clock. 12:21. Damn. Sam gathered their mugs and took them to the kitchen, probably to wash them out. Gabriel flicked off the table lamps and stretched his arms above his head. Footsteps shuffled across the sleek flooring. The hunter padded past him. “Hey, uh, we’ve got plenty of extra rooms for you to sleep in.” Gabriel stood and walked over so he was parallel with Sam, playfully hip-bumping him. “Lead the way, then, Moose.”  
-  
The bunker turns out to be much bigger than he first thought, with long, winding hallways and all sorts of hidden little grottos and nooks. Sam lead him to a cozy little bedroom, with a soft, plush bed situated so that the headboard is resting against the wall. A small but nice nightstand is tucked against one side, and atop it sat a lamp and an old-fashioned light blue analog alarm clock. There were no windows but it still seemed pleasant. Gabriel stepped inside the small room, looking around before focusing his gaze back on Sam, who was leaning against the doorway, half asleep. He ushered Sam out of the room, telling him to get some sleep and eat something, for Dad’s sake, he’ll be fine.  
Finally he climbed into the luxurious bed, pulling the comforter up around his shoulders until he felt wonderfully warm and sleepy. After Metatron had brought him back from the dead, it had helped him to sleep, as it made it easier for his Grace to recharge. He’d gotten used to the feeling, which was at first strange and unsettling, but now felt natural and welcome.  
Finally, Gabriel’s eyes closed, and he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, I don't have a beta.I'm not the best proofreader, and spell check only goes so far. So if anybody's interested, message me on here or on Tumblr at girlwithacardigan. Also, you can email me at girlwithacardigan@yahoo.com. I'd really appreciate it if somebody stepped up!


	6. Chapter Five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super late, aagh, I know! I'm awful. Updates will probably only be every other week for awhile, I've got a lot going on.  
> But for now, enjoy this lil' tidbit that hopefully scoots the plot along a bit.

The first thing Gabriel noticed when he woke up was that Sam was standing over him, telling him to wake up. The second thing was the heavy warmth resting on his shoulder, which he figured to be Sam’s hand.   
“Gabriel…Gabriel, it’s take to wake up. Gabriel.” He whined and pulled the pillow back over his head, burying his face into the pillowcase. “Mmh.” The pillow was lifted slightly so he could check the time. 8:23. Shocked, he pulled it back down, whining. “Saammmiiiich, it’s like, eight whatever. It’s not holy to be up at this hour.” Gabriel untangled his arm from the sheets and blindly stuck it out in the general direction of Sam’s voice to smack at the hunter.   
“Like you’d know anything about holy.”  
He couldn’t suppress a laugh at that, and Sam grinned in triumph before he was digging his nails into the cushy pillow and pulling it off.   
Gabriel’s hair was sloppy, and everywhere on the pillow, fanned out behind his head, curled around his ears, and flopping in his face all at once. His eyes were bleary, his lips slightly parted, pale pink as ever. Sam’s chest squeezed in on itself. The t-shirt Dean had given him was riding up slightly, exposing a strip of pale pudgy stomach. A thin trail of golden hair, leading to his waistband, dusted the skin. His hipbones were showing above the low-slung pajama pants. His arms were above his head, and there was a mole on the inside of Gabriel’s elbow. For a moment, he examined the sleepy archangel. Despite his first opinion, he was actually softer, chubbier, than he felt an archangel should be. When he was in the Cage, Lucifer and Michael had fought constantly, ripping and tearing at each other until their clothes were in tatters and they’d both been sinewy and well-built, muscle rippling under bleeding skin.   
Sam shook the thought from his head before it morphed into something much darker and disturbing. “It’s ten forty five, Rip Van Winkle. Unless you plan on sleeping all day, I’d say it’s time to get up.” Gabriel whined, but he started to shuffle out from under the covers, taking Sam’s offer of a soft housecoat. He wrapped it around his waist before standing, grumbling about the lack of a heater in the bunker. Sam snorted to himself as Gabriel scuffled along the floor out the door.  
-  
Gabriel blinked sleepily at the pancakes stacked on the delicate plate, syrup oozing from the topmost one. Sam trotted back over to the table, then set a mug full of dark, steaming liquid in front of him. More tea, then. Gabriel eagerly wrapped his hands around the warm mug and sucked it down. He almost yelped when the inside of his mouth was burned, and that was not tea, fuckfuckfuck. It was much sharper, more heady, almost bitter. “Th-that’s not tea!” Gabriel stuck out his tongue to catalog the damage. Sam laughed. “No, Gabriel, that’s called coffee. I figured you’d want it since you were so sleepy. Humans drink it to give them energy.” Sam’s own mug was printed with the words I VISITED OKLAHOMA’S OLDEST HOTEL! in thick, showy, blue cursive script, along with a colorful image of a small building with the caption The Springwren Inn printed below it. He raised his cup to Gabriel’s, who unenthusiastically clunked his own against Sam’s. Gabriel picked up the fork and butter knife, which sliced easily through the soft bread. He’d eaten before, of course, but that was just his hedonist ways. Of course, he’d still been an archangel back then, so he’d pop from country to country at will, sampling expensive, exotic foods and sleeping with beautiful people, dishing out his just desserts. And when people got suspicious? Well, then he hauled ass to the next down and did it all over again.  
The soft cakes were warm and spongy, light and buttery. The syrup stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was-ironically-heavenly. He shoved them into his mouth , lapping at the fork before draining half a pint of milk. Sam gaped at him, mouth hanging open in shock as he wolfed down the savory breakfast. “Good God, Gabriel. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Shrugging noncommittally, Gabriel winked and tweaked Sam’s nose across the table with the back of his spoon, smearing maple syrup across the bridge. Sam’s bushy eyebrows furrowed together and he went crosseyed when he tried to examine the damage, then blindly rubbed a spit-dampened napkin across it in a fruitless attempt to clean it. Frowning when his fingers still came away sticky and amber-coated, Sam finally gave up and instead heaped more pancakes onto Gabriel’s plate. “I dunno, like two days. I don’t really need to eat, just kinda sucks not to.”   
Sam raised an eyebrow at Gabriel as he cut into the pancakes, licking syrup from the fork like a dog drinking from the water bowl. “And you say you don’t need to eat?” Sam’s tone was joking, but his eyebrows were comically close to his hairline and his eyes were dinner-plate wide. Gabriel stuck his tongue out at Sam and waggled it back and forth. Sam responded by threatening to take back the pancakes. Gabriel gasped theatrically, grabbing the plate and holding it close, twisting his torso away so he could hold the food farther, out of the giant’s grip. In a flash, Sam had stood from the table and was at Gabriel’s side, damn his long legs. Out of pure reflex and muscle memory, Gabriel’s thumb and middle finger clicked together smoothly, before he remembered his predicament.   
Shock rippled through his body when he realized the warm, solid weight of the plate had disappeared. Swiveling his head, he spied it on the counter, and his mouth fell open of its own accord. Sam gasped, a low, sharp intake of breath, before clapping a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and shaking gently. “Gabriel,” he whispered, “the plate.” Mumbling a shaky acknowledgment, Gabriel rose from the table, Sam’s clasped hand falling away from his shoulder, and advanced until the flooring under his feet changed from sleek mahogany paneling to slightly-faded checkered tile. The ivory-colored plate sat next to the sink, steam rising in clustered plumes from the short stack. The butter dribbled down the sides of the browned pancakes to pool, translucent and creamy, in the bottom of the dish. A heavy plodding signaled Sam had followed. Gabriel’s brain dimly registered the shape of the hunter in his peripheral vision field. “Try something else,” rasped Sam. He nodded, and raised his hand again, sliding his index and middle fingers against his thumb. Now he was aware, he felt the slight tug, the drain of energy being pulled from his core. This time, the plate disappeared, only to reappear in the drying rack on the left section of the sink, still wet but cleaned of the breakfast. Turning back, he eyed the pile of skillets and various kitchen utensils lining the opposite counter next to the stove. He snapped again, and felt the pull once again.   
The menagerie of appliances and cooking ingredients poofed away, showing up pristine in the drain once again. Sam scuttled to the fridge, opening it, and his eyes scanned the shelves. “Everything’s back in its place, oh my God.” Closing the door a little more forcefully than need be, Sam looked back at Gabriel, who gaped back in return.   
“Holy shit.”  
-  
They waited for Dean to emerge, ruffled and groggy. After a generously sized mug of strong coffee, they sat in the war room, Dean gnawing a piece of cold bacon like a cow chewing cud. Gabriel and Sam exchanged covert, furtive glances. “Dude,” Dean grunted between bites of the fatty meat and swigs of his java, gesturing with his free hand, “what’s going on for you and Holier-than-Thou to tag team?” Eyeing the looks on the other men’s faces, Dean’s countenance flickered to momentary wariness. “Please don’t tell me you started another damn apocalypse, because if you did, I swear to God-‘’ Gabriel blurted out, “My grace’s coming back.” The eldest Winchester paused for a moment, mid-slurp, before making a sharp noise, spitting back into the plastic mug before ramming it back onto the table. He broke into a coughing fit, wheezing and hacking. “Jesus-“ more gasping, “could you be a little more blunt, there?” Finally he quieted. “Dean.” Sam warned, and his brother raised his open hands in defense. “Hey, just last night, you were saying you were runnin’ on fumes.” Gabriel twiddled his thumbs, grimacing. “Archangels aren’t connected to the Host like Seraphs or Cherubs. We’re…well, made of primordial energy, to take the words from Castiel’s mouth. Dad made it so if Heaven did fall or was locked up, my big bros and I would still run at full capacity. But somehow, Metadouche figured out how to cut me off from myself. Wait, that sounds weird. Um, he separated my grace from the rest of me-well, damn, no-okay, think of it like this.” He conjured a piece of paper and a Sharpie, drawing a thick black vertical line down the center of the page. “This here is what Metatron did,’’ Gabriel gestured vaguely to the line. Then he wrote _Grace_ to the left of it, and scrawled _Vessel_ on the other side so the two words were separated. “He disconnected my Grace from my vessel, so I couldn’t use it. He removed part of it, trapping it in a Grace vial like he did Cassie’s when he locked Heaven, but left me the other part. I haven’t the foggiest why. I’m thinking he used some type of ancient rune or sigil to disconnect the remaining juice from my vessel’s physical form, something more dark than your typical symbol, maybe ancient hoodoo or witchcraft…” Trailing off, Gabriel scoured his memory with the mental equivalent of a fine-toothed comb, trying to remember anything of the variety. One side of his mouth quirked into a half-scowl when nothing turned up. “And I’ve got zilch. What about you, dynamic duo?” Dean wrinkled his brows. “No, never heard anything of the sort. Maybe Dad’s old journal?” He turned to Sam, who sighed drastically and plodded off into the maze of halls before returning a minute later with a worn, beat-up leather-bound book with various wards carved into the front with what Gabriel assumed to have been some sort of cheap pocketknife, considering the crude, sloppy edges. Sam undid the string holding the cover closed, flipping through the pages, which were yellowed and covered in intricate, delicately penned diagrams and descriptions. He hadn’t pegged John Winchester as the artsy type, but he’d never met him face-to-face, that’d been Michael’s thing. The older brother scooted his chair closer and pulled the book at a different angle so he could see. Gabriel moved to the other side of the table, dragging his chair to the other side of Sam so the moose was sandwiched between he and Dean. Sam made a face as the two horned in on his personal space but said nothing. He skimmed through thin, worn pages until he reached the back of the book. “Dad’s got nothing either. There’s not much about angels at all, except references and stuff from myths. He definitely never met one, that’s for sure.” Sam closed John’s book, slumping back in his chair. “What about Castiel? Where is he, anyway?” Dean made a face. “After we knocked Metatron down a few pegs, he went off on his own thing. His vessel Jimmy had a daughter, Claire, and well, wayward doesn’t even begin to cover her. He’s uh, looking for, solutions.” Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Solutions to what?” And then it was Dean and Sam’s turn to exchange secretive looks. “Oh. You don’t know,” Dean drawled. “Sam must not have told you.” The eldest Winchester frowned. Instead of saying anything else, Dean laid his right arm out on the table and rolled up the sleeve of his pajama shirt. Gabriel’s mouth fell open when he saw it. It gaped for a moment before his jaw tensed and he suddenly stood up, grip tightening on the table until his knuckles whitened. “You,” he hissed from clenched teeth, “were a fool enough to accept the Mark of Cain. The Mark of fucking Cain. I mean, you’ve done moronic shit before, but this, this is so much worse. This is fucking Biblical proportions. You-you think you’ve pissed off angels before? Wait until they found out you’re carrying around the Mark of Cain. Then you’ll know what it’s like to have hundreds of furious garrisons breathing down your neck, wanting nothing more than to lock you away in Heaven’s prison for all of literal Daddamn eternity!” Gabriel slammed his open palms against the table, his voice rising to a bellowing roar, shards of his true voice trickling, of blaring horns and raging hurricanes and the roar of lions. He pressed his chin against his chest instead, sucking air in sharply. Gabriel dug his nails into his palms, almost drawing blood. Instead of exploding, he pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw spots dancing against his eyelids. “Shit, I’m sorry.” He mumbled, sinking back into the chair again. “No, it’s fine. It was kind of a stupid move in hindsight. I mean, we dealt with Abbadon and everything, so now the million-dollar question is how do we get rid of it?” Gabriel evened his breathing, conjuring images of calm lakes and warm, lazy afternoons spent under willow trees with his dog curled up next to him, both of them working through bags and bags of treats. Dean made a face. “I’m going to shower. Sam’ll fill you in in the meantime.” Dean drained the last droplets of his coffee. As he got up and passed Sam, he slapped his younger brother’s broad shoulder. “Wh-dude! He’s been dead four years, it'll take forever!” Sam whined as Dean went around the corner. After a moment came Dean's flippant 'Not my problem!'. Sam moped for a moment before he chuckled and ran a hand through his lush hair. “What? What’s so funny?” Gabriel smacked at his hand. “Daddamn. Genius.” Sam’s chuckling grew to full-on guffawing, bellowing and filling up the room. He scowled at the moose-like man, before he leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms.  
“Shut up.”


	7. Six.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaand I'm back in black. Or, uh, jeans. Whatever. Forgive me for my slowness, and I'll repay y'all in faster updates.  
> 

Gabriel hummed to himself as he paced the perimeter of his little room. Waving his hand, the lamp on the nightstand suddenly disappeared, only to reappear on the dresser. Reexamining the lighting, he groaned to himself and flopped down on the bed, which was now covered in a soft, thick comforter, deep red with thin gold stripes that he had found in a linen closet. The sheets he’d picked from the cabinet were the color of pale honey. He’d lined one wall with dark oak bookshelves that contained his favorite novels, along with several knickknacks he’d hidden away in an old safe house in rural California, nestled in the mountains. A tiny jade sculpture of his Loki persona, carved hundreds of years ago by a poor Indian man in exchange for bread, along with a dreamcatcher made of silver braided string and delicate twigs woven together, with translucent beads adorning the cords. He’d picked the dreamcatcher up in Budapest thousands of years ago while investigating the possibility of a Michael sighting, which had turned out to be a hoax. A bottle of ten-thousand year old wine that he never drank but still loved. The liquid was a rich iridescent amber, the bottle of mottled blown glass. Sometimes he would try to pick out patterns in the swirls and slopes. Most times he wouldn’t find any, unless you counted abstract shapes and squiggles. A carved stone said to bring good fortune and favor of the gods (he’d picked it up for the sake of the irony) and a pale wax candle with twisted, spindly vines growing around it. Gabriel rearranged all of these into places on his shelf, then collapsed back onto the bed. He’d swapped out the harsh fluorescent lights for soft wall lights with thin shades with a snap of his fingers. For a bit, he’d thought about changing the paint on the walls-or lack of-but then decided he could do that manually and he didn’t want to overexert his grace. For now, he was content. Usually, he’d want plenty of wide windows with sunlight, but he was willing to make an exception since it would make the bunker much less impenetrable. Collapsing back into the soft plush bedspread, he started to drift back into sleep, pulling a spare blanket over himself, until the door swung open.  
He lifted his head slightly, blinking away his drowsiness. Sam stood in the doorway, wearing his patented flannel and worn-out jeans and heavy boots and jacket. “We’ve got a case. Dean’s staying behind to do research on the Mark, so it’ll just be you and me because, frankly, I don’t trust you two to be alone together and not kill each other. No offense.” Gabriel flung the blanket off him in a way that wasn’t totally necessary and sat up, sliding off the bed to stand at the foot of it. Sam’s eyes darted around the room as he took in Gabriel’s little adjustments. “You said you barely had any grace left! And all of a sudden your room’s like a Hilton suite - how -“ Gabriel shushed him with a finger pressed against his lips. “Call it a miracle, Sammy.”  
Sam rolled his eyes and pulled Gabriel’s hand away from his face. “Well, there seems to be some unusual angelic activity in a town half across the state. Miracles and all. I really think it could be something big, like some higher-class angel or something.” Sam bounced on his heels. “So if I were you, I’d start packing a bag because we’ll be gone for a bit, um, toothbrushes and stuff, since most motels don’t provide them.” Gabriel raised an eyebrow and snapped his fingers. A compact but sturdy suitcase appeared on the bed, full of neatly folded clothes and a bag of toiletries. “Done. Now what?” Sam chuckled to himself at the sight of the little suitcase. “Oh, this is gonna be a wild ride, isn’t it? Hunting with you in the passenger seat.” He pulled the suitcase from the bed, walking to stand next to Sam. “Oh, you bet. You ain’t never seen nothing like what I can do.” Eyeing Sam’s perky rump, he friskily swatted his butt as he went by, smiling at Sam’s indignant squawk, traipsing out through the hallways. In a moment, he saw the moose appear in his field of vision, and winked, and was rewarded with a huff and an eye roll. Sam leisurely strolled along beside him (damn those long legs of his) hands shoved in his pockets. They entered the main room, and Sam offered to take Gabriel’s bag for him up the stairs. Since he wasn’t yet back to full strength, he obliged.  
The air was cool against his face, blowing his hair. The leaves were on the verge of changing, and the grass was beginning to blanch in some places. There was a definite nip to the air that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago, and Gabriel eagerly sucked in a breath. He always loved winter and fall and the cold. The moon shone down from millions of miles away, and stars winked from the inky night sky. Sam lugged their bags into the trunk, face flushed, hair messy, shirt collar skewed open, and a familiar feeling trickled down Gabriel’s spine and into his ribs to squeeze his heart. Or whatever was actually in there, because he was pretty sure that since the vessel didn’t need it and was technically dead, the heart was useless as long as Gabriel possessed the vessel. Shrugging it off, he climbed into the passenger seat, pulling the faded seat belt across his body to latch it into the mechanism. His Grace wasn’t yet fully restored yet, and he had no idea if he was able to heal himself. Sam opened the door to the car, seemingly examining the logistics of the situation, before he released the seat and scooted it back so he could fit in the driver’s seat, which was much more of a production than it should’ve been. Gabriel couldn’t help giggling to himself as Sam wrestled with the steering wheel and seatbelt, limbs twisting and curling, grunting in annoyance. Finally he settled with his legs bent, the tops of his knees almost brushing the underside of the steering wheel. He scoffed at the position Sam was pretzeled into, raising a teasing eyebrow. “Gosh, Sam, don’t get too comfy there!” Sam smacked his arm, hard, and Gabriel play-winced, faking injury. Sam shot him a warning look that absolutely oozed annoyance and Gabriel grinned, the picture of sainthood, innocently winding his hands in his lap. He considered mojoing up a picturesque shimmery halo to complete the look, then decided against it; it would probably make things real awkward, real fast. He leaned back against the seat, stretching his legs out and getting nice and comfy. The Impala sputtered and hacked to life, purring as Sam carefully steered her down the driveway and onto the main road. Sam chattered nervously as he hugs the curves and kinks of the road. “It’s gonna be a few miles of just backcountry roads, before we can merge onto the highway. When we first set up in the bunker, we asked around about what anyone knew about it, and I guess the old Men of Letters started some conveniently timed rumors, so everyone just thinks it’s a well-off recluse living off the grid. Kinda trickled down through the generations as an urban legend or something, I guess.” Sam’s fingers drummed lazily against the wheel, and Gabriel pillowed his arms behind his head, sighing. For all Dean’s blathering and worrying about his car, it really did ride well, smooth and quiet, save for the rattling of those half-melted toy soldiers in the A/C vent. It was dark save for the moonlight shining in through the windows and the glowing numbers on the radio clock in the dash. The occasional lights of the flickered cars illuminated the interior of the Impala suddenly, harshly, in yellow or orange or white light.  
They drove on.  
Eventually, Sam starts to get tired and, ignoring Gabriel’s offer to drive with a pointed look, he pulled in to a roadside hotel. “Stay here while I get the room key and please don’t explode the car.” Sam said through the half-open window of the driver’s side before he walked inside to book the room. Gabriel huffed dramatically, propping his chin in his hand. The hotel was lit with neon lights and the sign was harshly lit, the ‘l’ in hotel flickering. After a few minutes Sam returned, a keyring hanging from his jeans pocket. Poking his head through the open window, Sam swung the keys a few inches from Gabriel’s face, smiling smugly. “Help me with the bags in the back.” Gabriel carried the duffels into the small, dimly lit room, letting them drop on the-  
Holy shit.  
There was only one bed, and it sat in the middle of the room, unstable-looking, with a white-striped comforter and what looked to be pinstriped sheets. A white-painted oak nightstand was pressed against it. Sam sputtered behind him, a string of barely intelligible mutters and curses, before he jogged back to the front desk to try for another room. Once Sam had left, Gabriel walked the perimeter of the room, opening the window - he didn’t like confined spaces - and threw himself onto the bed, closing his eyes. Despite its looks, it was surprisingly comfortable. Gabriel stretched his limbs, playacting at making a snow angel in the soft folds of the bedspread. He heard the doorknob turn, and cracked open one eye, and caught a glimpse of a very unhappy moose storming in. Sam yanked the chair out from under the little desk and slumped down, massaging his temples with his fingers. “They don’t have a room with two beds, just other singles like this. Figured we were a couple and wouldn’t mind.” Was that disgust or just exhaustion in Sam’s voice? He couldn’t tell. Leaning back in the chair, Sam’s head fell limply back, and from his perch on the bed, Gabriel could see his eyes were closed. Clearing his throat, Gabriel opened his mouth.  
“So, you want left or right side?”  
-  
Dean’s hand scrabbled at the edge of the page, his slick fingers uselessly slipping against the thick paper. Annoyed, he wiped his fingers on his jeans, before going to try and part the pages, which were stubbornly stuck together with some kind of gum. Finally, he just pinched the two pages and pulled, fuck the tears. The paper came loose, and a pale dried glob of something that was once pink crumbled away. Cringing, Dean brushed it off the table with a pen. There was a flutter behind him, a familiar sound.  
“Hello, Dean.”  
Dean slammed the book closed, relieved to get a break. “Hey, Cas. What’s up?”  
Cas reappeared in the chair across from him. “I would assume the sky and any flying animals, especially avians.” He almost rolled his eyes, but held himself back. “No, it’s a phrase. It means, y’know, ‘what’s happening with you?’ It’s a conversation starter.” Dean took a pull from his beer after pushing some stacks of paper out of the way. “Are you doing research on the Mark of Cain?” Cas craned his head forward to look over his shoulder. “Yeah, wanna take a look?” Cas nodded, and Dean scooted his research over. The angel pulled a heavy tome to face him, sighing. “I suppose we have work to do.” Dean chuckled as Cas pulled a paper from the folds of the pages, a guide on ancient sigils and symbols. “You don’t say, buddy.” Dean groped for a heavy tome sitting a few inches away, engraved with intricate runes and a title in what Dean thought was probably Arabic or some other Middle Eastern language. Sighing and propping his head up on his fist, Dean opened it to the index, inked in delicate, swooping calligraphy. Opening it to the specified page on the Mark, he did a quick scan of the page. A diagram illustration of it, a basic history of the Mark, albeit conflicting with the other accounts he’d read. “Cas.” he grunted, turning to look at the other, “Yes, Dean?” Cas disappeared from his chair only to reappear right beside him, his long coat brushing Dean’s shoulder. “I, uh, wanted to ask you about this. Is this accurate, ‘cause I’ve read stuff that’s never even mentioned this here,” Dean pointed to the passage in question. Cas squinted, taking the book from Dean’s hands to examine it closely. “That is false. Cain never attempted to remove the mark, especially not with the help of a Hindu medicine man.” Dean slumped, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. “So we’ve got nothing more.” Cas patted his shoulder in what Dean guessed was supposed to be comforting. “I’m afraid not.”  
Dean sighed, and reached for his bottle to take another swig.  
“Well, ain’t that a bitch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to get better at chapter endings.  
> Comments are welcome, so please tell me what you think!


	8. Chapter Seven.

Gabriel bit his lip as Sam shifted in his sleep, just a bit toward him. His warmth was eerily similar to a siren’s call, drawing him in like the fly to honey. Twisting carefully, he checked the alarm clock. 2:41 A.M. Sam had been up until eleven researching, although in the back of his mind Gabriel thought it might’ve been to avoid sleeping, since Sam had at first protested to sharing the bed, citing his size. 

“There’s no way you can share a bed that size with me,” Sam had waved a long-fingered hand in the general direction of the aforementioned piece of furniture. “I’ll end up crushing you or accidentally crowding you off the bed!” 

Gabriel had narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips like a disapproving old lady. “Are you discriminating against me because of my size?” He slapped a hand over his heart theatrically, his other flying up to rest against his forehead. 

When Sam’s facade cracked and a reluctant smile split his face, Gabriel had grinned widely and untucked the bedspread so he could crawl in. When he moved to undo his jeans, Sam coughed loudly. 

“Um. If we’re going to share the bed, you’re, ah, going to need to wear pants.” Sam pulled a pair of loose pajama pants from his duffel. “Here. These should work.” 

*

Shifting nervously, Gabriel scooted himself closer to the edge of the bed, where cold air worked its way between the sheets and under the blanket.He shivered as it flirted with his skin. Oh, what he wouldn’t do for a heating pad right now…He pulled the sheets under his body as best he could. 

Sam rolled over, one arm shooting out to drape precariously over Gabriel’s shoulder. The bed creaked ominously as Sam moved again, and Gabriel’s breath stuttered as Sam’s other arm burrowed under him so he could rest his hand over Gabriel’s sternum, snuffling softly. His body radiated warmth, and Gabriel let his head relax and drop back to rest snugly in the crook between Sam’s shoulder and head. He felt himself blush pink, but pushed the awkward feelings to the back of his brain, where he kept memories of Heaven, the truth about a slew of international incidents involving some very intoxicated Pagan gods, and other unspeakable things. If Sam felt weird about it in the morning, he could just say he didn’t remember it happening, that it was an accident, that he thought Sam was a pillow or something like that. Yeah, that’d work. Gabriel cuddled back into Sam’s warm, strong embrace and let his eyes flutter shut.

-

He awoke to his name being whispered softly. “Gabriel…Gabriel…Gabriel! Gabe!” He startled awake, and was unpleasantly surprised to find the bed empty and no longer so pleasantly warm. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, opposite Gabriel, hair mussed magnificently. Gabriel sat up, rubbing his eyes clear of sleep with a fist, and yawned. 

 

“I, uh, thought it was for the best that we’d get going,” Sam said, “I can fill you in on the way to the witness’ house.” 

So no mention of the cuddling. Maybe he moved away from Gabriel in his sleep before he even woke up. Gabriel shook the thought away, shuffling out of the bed and pulling the duffel into his lap and pulling out a change of clothes. Shuffling out of the bed and kicking the covers away from where they were entwined with his feet, Gabriel carried his clothes into the bathroom and set them on the counter. He turned on the shower, stripped off and stood under the hot water, pacing in tight circles until his skin turned red and each droplet felt like a tiny fist beating down on him. 

By the time he got out of the shower, Sam was dressed and ready, wearing a crisp suit, his hair combed back to curl around his ears, tie laying perfectly as he sat with his laptop balanced on his lap. What appeared to be a dry-cleaning bag made of translucent pale paper was laid across the bed. 

“What’s this, Sammy?” Gabriel held it up to the light, before dropping it again and sprawling back on the bed. 

“I found a person of interest. Check this out.” Sam clicked around on his computer for a moment. Gabriel hopped up off the bed and leaned over his shoulder to watch the screen. A DMV registration was pulled up on one corner of the display, Google maps in another window. “Joel Givvens. He’s a forty-two year old pharmacist who was working the graveyard shift when the angelic incident happened. I’m going to interview him later. First, though, I found a video the police confiscated that some teenagers shot. It’s crappy quality but it’s something to go on.” 

Swapping windows, Sam pulled up a still of the outside of a drugstore. The image was grainy and slightly blurred, and Gabriel had to squint to make out of the shape of a woman standing alone under a bright streetlight. Sam hit the spacebar and a video began playing, the window expanding to take up the entire screen. Hushed whispers came across the feed, and he heard someone say, “The fuck’s wrong with her?’’ and, ‘’I dunno, maybe she’s schizo or something,’’ The woman was tall and thin, with long legs. She was wearing a navy-blue dress with a pastel print of roses, the scoop neck drawing attention to the assortment of necklaces she wore. A snug tan canvas jacket was slung over the dress, unzipped. Not bothering to ask, Gabriel’s hand shot out and he tapped the spacebar, pausing the video. 

“What’s she holding there, in her left hand?” 

Sam zoomed the video. “Looks like her shoes.” A pair of old black high-top Converse, they dangled from her fingers by the laces, which were wrapped around her loose fist. 

Gabriel checked the timestamp on the video. “This was taken two weeks ago, and it had to be at least less than thirty degrees out, considering the location and the time of night.” Gabriel harrumphed to himself and nudged Sam to restart the video. The frame shook, going out of focus briefly before resettling. The woman was moving around the parking lot, walking barefoot across cracked asphalt and small rocks, unfazed. 

“Man, let’s just go back to Jenny’s party, this is messed up.” The hissed remark came from off-screen, followed by the sound of someone being punched in the arm.. 

“Dude, don’t be a wuss.” This was a different speaker, the voice was deeper, coarser. 

“Maybe we should call the police or something. I mean, like Dante said, she could be…not right in the head or something. What if she gets kidnapped by some crazy serial killer?” A girl this time, her voice edged with concern. 

Deep Voiced Guy snorted. “This is Kansas, there are no crazy serial killers.” 

Gabriel’s brows furrowed. “How long does she just walk around the parking lot?” 

Sam shot him a sideways look that almost seemed impatient, before fast-forwarding the video a few minutes and then pausing it on a new frame. The woman was bent over at the waist, hands gripping her knees. For a moment, a low static buzzed through the speakers. Then a bright flash tore the placid night scene in half, light gushing from the woman’s eyes and mouth. Gabriel jumped in his seat at the inhuman scream that was ripped from her body. The frame suddenly tilted and fell with a crunching sound. 

“They dropped the fucking camera. They dropped the fucking camera!” Next to him, Sam’s threw his arms up in exasperation. The camera was on it’s side, it’s perspective skewed, all they could see were blurry shapes he thinks might be her legs. 

“Dude, get the camera! God, you’re such a klutz!” A shoe peeked into the frame, a lacy sandal, the straps bisecting light brown skin, the ankle decorated with a temporary ink stamp, the kind that bouncers used at nightclubs. 

“Lemme get it, he’s wasted.” A manicured nail covered the frame for a moment, then moved out. “Geez, this is whack.” 

 

A pair of ratty Vans rapidly ran forward until the camera was picked up and focused on the woman again, her body was folded in on itself unnaturally. Her legs were bent backwards in a way that would’ve dislocated them had she been alive, and her forearm was twisted at an awkward angle. 

Deep Voice Guy spoke again, he sounded scared now, “Oh, shit, dude! We-we gotta go – she’s freaking dead, we can’t stay here!” 

Where the woman’s eyes should’ve been, there were just pits burnt deep into her skull, the ends and roots of her hair were charred black.   
The video ended with that shot.

“Vic’s name was Kaylah Wenders,” Sam explained, “She was a journalist for the local newspaper. According to her, she was diagnosed with stage two ovarian cancer a few months ago. She wasn’t responding to treatments like they’d hoped, and took a month’s leave of absence to try an experimental herbal clinic in Arizona, but their records say she never checked in.” Sam’s deft fingers moved across the laptop, until he sighed in frustration. “The oncologist’s records are too heavily encrypted for me to hack, so we’ll have to get them the old way.” 

Gabriel watched as Sam slung his jacket back on, and opened the dry-cleaner’s bag to reveal a crisp black suit, pressed and clean which he handed to him. Gabriel took the suit into the tiny bathroom to change, closing the door behind him. The suit fit well, the white shirt was loose but draped in all the right places. The slacks highlighted the curve of his thighs, his slight bowlegs. He finger-combed his hair into what he thought was acceptable, wetting his fingers with water from the tap. Once he was finished preening, he cracked open the bathroom door. Sam was waiting patiently for him, sitting on the bed. The door creaked as he pushed it further ajar and Sam’s eyes met his for a brief but intense moment, and then he took in the rest of Gabriel, dressed up, tie knotted snug against his throat, the picture of decorum. 

“Wow, you actually look legit,” he said with a hesitant smile. 

Gabriel couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “Oh, hush, you flirt.” He swatted Sam on the shoulder as he went to roughly make the bed. 

While he was stretching the sheets across the soft mattress, Sam flitted around the room, checking his pockets and his gun and loading his laptop bag with whatever he figured he might need. When Gabriel was ready, Sam was still collecting things. Gabriel leant against the door, straightening his cufflinks which were engraved with the Men of Letters’ sigil. He ran his finger over the carved symbol, feeling the nicks and little inconsistencies in the track; from the feel of it it was probably hand-done. Finally Sam grabbed their room keys off the dresser and they made their way into the hall, locking the door behind them. Taking the stairs two at a time to keep up with Sam’s inhumanly long legs, Gabriel experimentally flexed his Grace again, carefully mojoing the keys from the moose’s pocket into his hand.

When they reached the Impala, situated in the parking lot, far enough from any other cars to prevent the possibility of her getting scratched by any other cars, Sam patted his pockets for the keys and spun around on his heel, glaring daggers at Gabriel, who innocently twirled the Impala’s keys between his fingers. “What?” He purred, a feral grin settling on his face. He didn’t startle when Sam yanked the keys from his fingers suddenly, shoving them in the ignition and crunching himself into the driver’s seat. 

When Gabriel didn’t follow, the driver’s window rolled down and Sam angled his head out at him. “Well? We don’t have all day, witnesses to interview, research to do…get in!” 

Flashing him a cheeky wink, Gabriel snapped his fingers and reappeared in the passenger’s seat. “Alright, Sammo,” he lazily stretched himself back out in the seat, “let’s go, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple days late, please forgive me. Thank goodness gracious for my fabulous beta, @cliophilyra!


	9. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1)thank god for my beta (cliophilyra)  
> 2) so sorry about the wait

1 / 4  
A dark, heavy ache weighed over him as he lay, wrapped in the covers. He craned his neck to look over at Kali, whose bare shoulders glittered in the moonlight. Baldur’s dark hair, thick and coarse, brushed his chin, and the god’s hands tightened on his hips when he shifted to pull Kali a little closer. 

“Loki.” It was not a question, and he felt the tugging in his gut. He wanted to just burrow into Baldur and let Kali spoon him, to rest between them, let their hands and bodies catch him. But he couldn’t. He moved to sit up, to squirm his way out; already planning how to use his powers to make them forget. 

“Stop, Loki, stay. Stay with us.” Kali’s voice was thick with sleep, and her dark hair sleek but messy, pulled into a low ponytail. He remembered the feeling of that hair between his fingers, tickling his skin, her long, trim fingers dancing over his back. He had found his True Vessel by then, a man with golden hair and milky skin, with deep whiskey eyes. Kali and Baldur preferred their current meatsuits: Kali’s an Indian model who’d found work hard to find, Baldur’s a stressed out writer reduced to writing articles for some tiny town’s mom-and-pop newsletter. They’d both been eager and willing to give up their bodies at the drop of a hat. Sighing, he turned to face the god, and those almost-neon blue eyes pinned him in place, and Kali’s hands made their slow way up his spine. A pair of lush, soft lips traced the back of the top of his shoulder blades and he felt her body move closer, her breasts pressing against his body. 

“You know. You know I don’t belong here,” he whispered softly, but the press of Baldur’s mouth, gentle but insistent against his own, silenced him. 

“Loki, your place is here, with us.” Baldur whispered, working an arm around his waist. Kali continued to kiss a line up his neck until she could nuzzle right under his ear. His own hands squeezed Baldur’s biceps nervously, and he finally let their eyes meet. He let himself be pulled down back into the warm embrace of the bed, unafraid because he knew their outstretched hands would stop his fall. 

\- 

The night had begun with he and Baldur and Kali messing about with a band of travelers, just silly, trivial things. But when a bottle of Asgardian mead was brought out, their inhibitions were gone in no time and soon Baldur had Gabriel (or Loki, as he’d believed) pinned down against the bed he’d conjured. Gabriel could barely see because Baldur was attacking his mouth, desperate and horny and needy. He could see Kali behind Baldur though, her blouse untucked, her skirt unzipped, and her hand sliding down her flat stomach to tease at the top of her panties, soft and lace and black, as he knew from experience. She had slipped her fingers past the band, her eyes fluttering shut as she opened her thighs wider to reach her clit. Gabriel had gasped in shock as the summer god above him tugged the first two buttons of his shirt open, and had turned his attention back, scrabbling to get Baldur’s jacket off, letting it pool behind him on the bed. Baldur sat up, straddling his hips while Gabriel pulled at his zipper, letting the copper teeth untwist themselves and watching Baldur’s usually snow-pale skin turn a bright red. 

“Well?” Gabriel had murmured, smirking as he leaned back against the bed, legs spread, forearms supporting him. “Either of you care to join me?” 

*** 

Gabriel looked back at that night with a certain bitter fondness. Of course, it had been so long since then and he had long since grown bitter and his heart hard. 

It hadn’t been much, he had thought at the time - just sex - just three hedonistic pagan gods having an animalistic fuck to satisfy their lust. But now? Now that his clothes smelled of holy oil smoke and his hair was still wet from the sprinklers, it was all different. 

Fucking Winchesters. 

He tightened his fingers around a useless bottle of wine, rubbing his thumb raw against the edge until the skin split open. Letting the bottle drop on the floor and shatter, he ran a hand through his hair. 

2 / 4  
“Fuck!” 

Pulling at his hair, he threw his body against the floor, bracing himself with his palms. When he lifted his hand again, the skin there was torn to ribbons, and blood was steadily dribbling from the gashes and slits. Curling his fingers against his palm, he screwed his eyes closed and let himself feel the pain, there and real and absolute, the only thing he had now. Nobody could knew, if they found out, he was dead. Oh God, he didn’t wanna die. He let out a shaking sob, tears glittering as they streaked down his face. “No, no, no,” he whispered, because that wasn’t him, the name Gabriel had stopped meaning anything to him centuries ago, but now—everything was changing and he couldn’t take it, he couldn’t… 

\- 

The rush of air against his wings, he remembered that perfectly. Michael and Raphael giving a valiant chase, and how he could feel them hot on his heels, but pushed himself faster, blinking through his tears. 

“Gabriel! Brother! Cease this foolish nonsense and return to Heaven with us at once!” The decibels of that cry would’ve torn apart the Earth, had it manifested. 

Gabriel squeezed his eyes tighter and tighter. 

He shattered the ionosphere. 

He cried as the atmosphere tore his skin raw and red. 

He plummeted to the Earth, and fell in a remote region of Canada, in a thick forested area hundreds of miles away from any humans. 

He didn’t move for so long. Stayed curled up, sheltered by giant plants, but he was okay. Tamping down his Grace to hide himself, he coiled himself tighter, and whispered to himself, “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” 

*** 

He sobbed, pulling himself up with the aid of the counter, fingers clutching at the edge, and let out another cry as more memories flooded him. Heaven, Earth, the Pagan Gods, the Mystery Spot… Gabriel leaned heavily against the kitchen island, shaking and wet, teeth chattering. The cuts on his palm had healed already, his mojo quickly recovered from being trapped within the holy fire circle. He experimentally pulled one of the large shards of glass from among the fragments and held it in his palm. Cool and heavy, the image of the hand beneath it was distorted and warped. He looked at the broken image of himself reflected in it: hair dripping, face pale, clothes soaked. Throwing the shard across the room as hard and far as he could, he let his archangel blade slip from inside his sleeve. The tip was frosty against his skin, and he worked his sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his forearm. 

It wouldn’t be hard. Just a nick and he’d be gone. Forgotten. Left to become a whisper between old women, a folktale inked in books. Loki, the trickster god, once mighty and strong… 

He just wanted it to be over. 

*** 

He watched. Every day, every morning. He lounged back, munching on candy bars, watching Dean Winchester die in a hundred ways, each more hilarious than the last. The people, he spun from midair, stitched-together illusions made of tidbits of people he interacted with in the past. Doris’ black-hair-and-red-lipstick combo is taken directly from Kali. The old man reminded him of Odin. The movers, trying desperately to fit a grand piano through a doorway, come from a pair of twins who’d been locked in a shed by their abusive father (who later met a puzzling end, his body found in an abandoned hut, ripped to pieces by scavengers) He’d chosen to tear that particular man  
3 / 4  
apart because family was sacred. You didn’t do that, you didn’t just abandon your damn kids and leave them to their own devices. You just didn’t. 

\- 

“Dean, I’m telling you, we’re stuck in some kind of time loop.” The eldest brother forked eggs into his mouth, glancing up at the younger, who worried a toothpick between his fingers. 

“Like Groundhog Day?” 

He’d laughed at that from his perch. 

Of course, he felt bad about having to kill Dean Winchester a thousand times, but sometimes you just had to play dirty to get what you want. He’d tried to keep it as quick as possible, but that dark side of him, the side that laughs at blood and pain, the side that played people like puppets, swallowed him. 

It was funny at first, he swears. 

*** 

He watched the lights of the Elysian Fields motel flicker and flare. He sat in the backseat of Dean’s precious Impala, which smelled of leather and wood chips. Dean slammed the door of the motel as he stormed back in. 

You’re nothing but a coward. 

He rolled the word, the phrase, around on his tongue, it dripped with a familiar poison he’d come to embrace. This is the point where he’d normally flee, he thought as he curled back in on himself, wrapping his body into a tight little ball, settling against the seat. His breath fogged as he sighed, rubbing his cheek against the leather to ground himself. Gabriel squeezed his eyes closed when they started to water. No. He wouldn't cry. He hadn’t cried in a thousand years, and he wouldn't cry for a thousand more because he was solid, he was all that he needed, he was happy, satisfied. He was Loki, a god. He was the trickster, a sly monster. He was Gabriel, the powerful archangel. 

He was none of those things. 

\- 

He climbed out of the Impala, heart pounding. The fluorescent light hurt his eyes as he pushed open the doors of the motel from afar. The bellhop lay on the desk, neck twisted unnaturally, a single drop of blood having dripped from his left eye. A fly buzzed around his head before crawling into his ear. Wincing to himself, Gabriel passed by. 

His breath was punched from his lungs when he saw the hall though. Blood streaked across the walls. A set of intestines had spilled over the floor, and he didn't want to think about who they belonged to (yet his peripheral vision told him it was Ganesh). The carpet crinkled softly under his shoes, everything else was eerily silent. His head screamed at him to run, an almost physical pull, his gut instincts and thousands of years of distrust boiling over until he was drowning in it. 

He’s in here. 

He knew this and the knowledge hit him in the stomach, Lucifer’s broken Grace washed over him, along with a slew of repressed memories and the urge to vomit and curl into a ball on the floor and cry. It tried to link up with his own, but he steadied himself and tamped his Grace down so Lucifer couldn't find him. Hopefully. 

The DVD was all set up and ready for when the shit hit the fan. , recorded on a blank disc and fitted in a custom Casa Erotica case he’d spun out of thin air after he revealed his true identity to the Winchesters. It burned a hole in his jacket pocket. Closing his eyes, he tentatively reached out with his pagan magic and he felt a phantom pain in his leg, shared pain from Kali.   
4 / 4

Sam and Dean were crouched behind an overturned long table, hurriedly trying, and failing, to come up with a desperate, last ditch plan. Lucifer crouched over Kali, his fist clenching as she writhed in pain, gasping. “No - stop, please – no,” She sobbed as he twisted his hand, and he felt through the link as the bones in her leg broke. Mascara dripped down her face, turning her tears a muddy grey-black. Drawing a breath, he manifested himself in the room, next to Sam and Dean behind the table. The younger Winchester’s eyebrows raised, and he opened his mouth to speak. Gabriel shoved the DVD case at Dean, knocking Sam purposely with his arm to distract him from whatever he had been about to say. “Protect this with your life,” he said, and almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Then he stood up and moved away from the table, letting his archangel blade slide from his sleeve into his palm. Kali raised herself up on her elbow, whimpering, her other hand cradling her injured leg. Her mouth formed his name, he saw, but it died there, unspoken. Lucifer turned sharply, shock and recognition flashing across his features. 

“Gabriel.” 

It was not a question, it was a statement, sneered coldly, his lip curled just the perfect amount to tinge the words with disgust. Lucifer’s hands and face were streaked with blood; his vessel stretched too thin to contain a being of so much primordial energy, it showed in the rips and tears in his skin. But his eyes looked startlingly bright and clear, electric almost, and that gaze fixated on him. “Brother.” 

Gabriel licked his lips and tightened his grip on his blade, straightening his back and legs, pushing his shoulders back. 

“Luuuci, I’m hoome.” 

Lucifer’s grin is borderline maniacal. 

“Guys, get her out of here.” Gabriel snapped at the two brothers huddled behind him, and they immediately jumped into action, pulling Kali by the shoulders until she was at least somewhat on her feet. They dragged her out of the door, and the last he saw of them was Kali’s face, turned to look back at him in pain and concern. 

The door slammed closed at a sudden burst of Lucifer’s Grace. The lightbulbs flickered ominously. “All this for a girl, Gabriel? I sure hope you didn’t,” he wrinkled his nose in disgust and shuddered, “catch anything.” 

Gabriel scoffed to himself, and started to slowly circle his brother, moving in lazy circles and loops. He set up the decoy in a millisecond, faster than Lucifer could blink. He relayed what he wanted the illusion to do through a telepathic link and the illusion complied immediately. 

He stood behind Lucifer, and the moment his brother turned in his direction, hand lifted to grab his raised blade and redirect it, he swapped places with the illusion. A dab of a pagan magic-grace cocktail made it seem like he had burned out. 

The decoy’s death is accurate enough to fool Lucifer, and Gabriel will get away. 

He will count this as a win.


	10. hello hello hello

so it’s come to my attention i haven’t updated this in fucking forever, and as one of my new year’s resolutions i’ve decided to write more (schedule permitting)   
I WILL BE CONTINUING THIS. THIS IS NOT ABANDONED.   
i have about half of a new chapter done, and i’m going to try to get back on my schedule this weekend.   
so, here’s to new things.


	11. bitch im alive i s2g

ok so i know i updated saying i’d post the next chap soon a While back but Life happened and i got grounded for three months straight also so that. yep. the next chapter is going to be up in the next couple of days or you have permission to hunt me down and punch me. also it’s going to be unbetaed just so i can get back to posting content and get back in the swing of things.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam pressed his fingers against the wound, trying to staunch the steady flow of blood from Gabriel’s stomach. The fallen angel-slash-trickster had been drifting in and out of consciousness, but when he was awake he seemed to be alert enough and was responsive when Sam talked to him, hissing out a couple words before dropping back off. It would’ve been better if he didn’t keep passing out, but it was better than Gabriel not waking up at all, he knew. “Fuck,” he whispered, stomach twisting cruelly as blood bubbled up between his outstretched fingers, “fuck, no, no.” He felt hurriedly for a pulse, taking Gabriel’s wrist in his own; the beat was a little weak but definitely there. 

A few feet away, his abandoned phone lit up, chirping twice in rapid succession. Sam scratched at the stitching attaching his sleeve to his shirt until it ripped, balling it up and pressing it against the stab wound, leaning over to grab his phone. It took two tries to unlock his phone thanks to his shaking hands, and every tap smeared a fresh streak of blood across the screen, but finally it showed a pair of texts from Dean’s number.  
DEAN: Hello, Sam, Dean would like me to ask you where you are currently located. -Castiel.  
DEAN: Sorry to bother you again, Sam, but Dean says it is urgent. -Castiel.  
He replied with as much urgency as he could put into a text. Then he texted in a separate message, shoving his phone in his back pocket.  
It wasn’t a good idea to stay out here out in the open, where anyone could see them, but at the same time it definitely wasn’t a good idea to move Gabriel, since it would irritate his wound.  
Sam’s eyes darted around his surroundings, struggling to see in the dark, and his gaze landed on the garage. 

Slinging an arm under Gabriel’s legs and back, Sam carried him to the garage door, where he pried the cover off the manual garage opener, and crossed random wires in a fit of desperation until the door lifted, motor purring. He pulled Gabriel inside; the garage was devoid of a car, and on the far wall sat a washer and dryer, a stack of towels and blankets heaped atop the appliance. Pulling the blankets into a messy nest, he tossed his bloodied shirt sleeve aside and pressed a couple of hand towels against Gabriel’s stomach, breathing a little easier. Above the washer-dryer sat a shelf, atop which sat laundry detergent and dryer sheets, along with holy shit, a first-aid kit. Sam scrabbled for it, blood-slick fingers slipping on the clasp that held it closed, until his nail caught the edge, and he pulled it open so roughly that it broke open, spilling the contents - a few rolls of bandages, some medical tape, gauze, and a bottle of aspirin. He ripped open the medical tape along with a gauze pack, pulling open Gabriel’s shirt so he could dab at the wound with the towel before laying a square of the gauze over the gaping wound, securing the edges to Gabriel’s skin with the tape. His chest still rose and fell steadily, and it almost looked as if his eyelashes flutter every once in a while. Sam has prepared himself for the worst; he’s lost enough friends, enough family to get into the habit of detaching himself emotionally. His hands move of their own accord; his brain is detached, floating, his eyes taking in the situation, but not quite seeing. Dread and panic have settled low in his belly. His fingers feel clumsy with how they’re shaking. 

His entire body startled when there’s a honk from outside. His brain registered that it’s the Impala, and he turned to check Gabriel’s wound. Sam barely noticed the heavy creaking, cracking noise before the garage door was violently thrown open and up; Dean and Cas stood behind it, his brother with his gun drawn and ready, Cas with his angel blade gripped tightly, the point peeking out from his too-long sleeves.  
Cas was at Gabriel’s side in a flash, kneeling down to check him over. He looked up at Sam, eyes narrowed. “Dean informed me of the recent happenings,” he said slowly, “and I feel you should know that because I do not know if he still has any Grace, it isn’t wise to try and heal him. It could overload his body, and have - consequences.” He paused. “Irreversible ones.” Sam looked down at the prone trickster, with his skin sickly pale, clothes stained with blood, hair tangled and matted. He could see the outlines of delicate blue veins across his eyelids; his dark blonde eyelashes were long and rested against his cheek. “What kind?” The words came out as a rasp. “He could die, Sam. Or worse,” Sam’s head snapped up, “and believe me when I say there is worse. Things that would melt your human brain if I dared describe them to you.” Sam’s heart squeezed, an iron fist in his chest. “Without healing, he’ll die anyway.” God, his tongue feels fuzzy, heavy in his mouth, clumsy and too big; it’s a miracle he gets the words out.  
“Are you sure, Sam? Are you absolutely sure?” Cas said, and he rested a palm across the yawning hole in Gabriel’s side. A nod. “Yes.” 

“Then I would suggest you turn away.”  
Sam barely managed to twist to face the wall and fling an arm over his eyes before he felt blistering heat on his back, a wave of energy sweeping past him, ruffling his hair. Then came the distinctive sound, a dry crackling, like snapping twigs, a wet wringing noise, and a short gasp.  
“You may turn around.” Sam righted himself, and saw that the hole in Gabriel’s side was now closed, and in its place was a patch of shiny, taut pink skin. 

“Samster?”  
It was weak, a hoarse whisper, but Sam somehow heard it. Gabriel’s eyes had opened, and some of the color was beginning to return to his face. His eyes were bright and clear, and his fingers twitched against his stomach. “Yeah, Gabe. I’m here.” Gabriel’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Good. I didn’t want to die without a decent audience. I’m assuming you would’ve thrown yourself into my funeral pyre, and don’t tell me otherwise - let me live in my delusions.” He croaked. There was the somewhat lovable asshole he’d come to tolerate. “In your dreams,” Sam retorted, nudging the archangel’s arm. 

“Yeah, in your -” Gabriel let his head fall to the side, and suddenly he was facing Castiel, still kneeling opposite Sam. “- Castiel?” He murmured slowly, trying to sit up now, bracing his arms behind him, hissing under his breath from the residual pain. “Yes, brother.” Now that Sam was looking at him, he noticed that now Cas’ posture was a little saggier, his eyes looked almost a little cloudy, and he was paler; even his clothes suddenly seemed to hang off of him, as if he’d lost quite a bit of weight. “Good to see you again, old chap. Where’s Not-Quite-As-Tall, Blonde, and Tactless?” Gabriel clapped his hand against Cas’ knee, patting him roughly. “Dean is over there,” husked Castiel, eyebrows stitching together, eyes narrowing in disapproval.  
“I sure am, and if you try anything, I will put a bullet between your eyes,” piped up the silhouette of Dean, raising his gun for emphasis. Gabriel snorted. “Well, howdy, Dean-o. It’s lovely to see you too.” Gabriel erupted in a fit of coughing, and a little ball of anxiety burned in Sam’s stomach at the sight. “And that’s my cue. I’ll be out in the car. Be careful with this jackass.” Sam watched his brother duck under the half-raised garage door, before Dean climbed into the Impala. 

“Can you walk?” Sam asked Gabriel as he and Cas hoisted him up, holding him up by the arms. The archangel grunted in response, and Sam took that to mean no. He and Cas dragged the small man to the backseat of the car, and Cas climbed into the passenger seat while Sam was tasked with keeping an eye on him in the back. Gabriel was now completely conscious; his eyes darted to look around warily, and his breath came in heaving pants; his shirt was still torn, leaving skin exposed. Sam wriggled out of the remains of his blue dress shirt and offered it to Gabriel; underneath Sam had been wearing an undershirt. “You’ve got - well, a hole in your shirt, to be frank. Figured you’d, uh, want something to cover up with.” Gabriel eyed the proffered garment almost with an air of confusion before slowly taking it to wrap around his waist and abdomen.  
“…Thanks, Sam.”  
It shouldn’t have been as big of a deal as it suddenly seemed; Sam just handed him his shirt to cover up the rips in Gabriel’s. But it was the thank-you that was suddenly staring him in the face. Sam. Not Sam-which, not Samsquatch, not Samster, or any of his usual daffy nicknames. Sam, his plain name, boiled down to its purest, most basic form. And thank-you. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Gabriel thank somebody, unless it was meant to be sarcastic or biting. Looking back, he realized he’d never seen Gabriel so weak and vulnerable. He’d trusted Sam enough to ensure that he would help him, would heal him as much as he could, and oddly enough, that warmed his heart a little. The archangel-slash-trickster-slash-pagan-god always kept up a steady, strong wall of smiles and jokes and thinly veiled innuendos, never quite baring his feelings or anything too close to them. 

 

Sometimes Sam had wondered if he had lost who he had been before his many persona changes, if he’d just become a patchwork of a sly Norse god, an ironic vigilante trickster, and a runaway angel, all wrapped up in a short, stout vessel with golden hair and a wolflike grin, eyes made of sparking flint. A little bent, maybe broken, not quite fitting whatever mold he’d wanted to fill. Always a little dissatisfied, never content. Maybe he was doomed, a tragedy, a warning to those who dared rebel, one whose fate had been written and set in stone before he even took a breath of Earth’s air. At his core, Sam realized, Gabriel was a child, right down to his pettiness and love for sweets, one lost among a new generation of dark, unspeakable things. A being with trillions of years of burdens and loss heaped upon his shoulder.  
Sam looked over at him now. Lights from a passing car dappled his face, casting a bluish-white light across his hair, his milk-pale skin. The light illuminated whiskey eyes, a noble, aristocratic profile. Distantly he wondered if he’d ever been the muse for a great sculpture, with his delicate but artful features. He could see it easily in his minds’ eye, Gabriel’s features on an intricate marble statue, Greek or Roman, perhaps. He’d undoubtedly lived through that time period; Sam could picture him lounging on a chaise, surrounding by dutiful servants feeding him grapes and fanning his toga-clad figure. The image pulled a snicker from him, barely muffled by his closed lips. 

 

“What’s so funny, pal?” Gabriel had turned to look at him; half of his countenance was awash in light, the other shrouded in a cool darkness. “Nothing, really.” A golden eyebrow was raised and expertly arched. “Wondering if you were ever sculpted in the Greek or Roman style, and had a vision of you in a toga being fanned and fed grapes.” It was Gabriel’s turn to snort now, and he rolled his eyes. “Good Dad, Samsquatch - you’ve finally gone batty.” Sam slapped his arm. “It’s a very logical idea to think. Besides, don’t tell me it didn’t happen.”  
Gabriel’s sheepish look told him all he needed to know, and they laughed until Gabriel wheezed and broke into another coughing fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told you it'd be up trdayyyyy  
> again, not beta'd, and i only had time to separate the paragraphs before posting. i'm really going to try to get back on my schedule, and since summer vacation is about to start i'm going to have so much more time for writing on my hands.   
> so look out for that, and peace until then.


	13. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there are revelations.

When Gabriel wakes up, he’s blinded by the brightest fucking light he’s ever seen; at least, it feels like it. His abdomen hurts, and there’s a throbbing behind his temples, which is unfamiliar and starting to piss him off. He thinks he’s maybe hungover.

 

Once he’s fully awake, he realizes he’s in the room he had claimed for himself in the Winchesters’ bunker. There’s a shirt which is not his own draped around his shoulders. It’s at least three sizes too big for him. Pain burns in his side when he tries to sit up, and he shouts a rather choice word as he lets himself fall back on the bed.

 

He tries to catalog all the sensations in his body, but can’t get past the dull pain in his stomach and the headache. He focuses instead on the outside of his body; his hair feels greasy, and his clothes smell stale with a faint tang of something metallic and coppery which. It takes him a moment to realize, is blood.. It suddenly occurs to him that maybe he should investigate the pain in his side. There’s a sizable tear in his shirt, right about where the pain radiates from, but no wound or bruise is visible. Instead, the skin there is almost too smooth, and feels stretched too tight. It’s more than a little concerning.

 

There’s two knocks on the door, which jolts him out of his thoughts. “Uh - come in,” he calls hesitantly. The door creaks open, revealing Sam, lugging a laundry basket overflowing with jeans and flannels. Sam looks him up and down; which makes Gabriel feel almost insecure but weirdly warm.

 

“How long have you been awake?” Sam asks.

 

Gabriel swallows. “Barely ten minutes.”

 

Sam hums, then gestures at his clothes. “I was going to ask if you wanted me to wash your clothes. I, uh, left some spares on the dresser. But if I’m interrupting, I’ll leave -‘’

 

“No, fresh clothes’d  be nice. Lemme change.” Gabriel says. Sam nods and goes out, closing the door.

 

Getting undressed is awkward. The not-wound near his hip still smarts when he moves too much, and he flinches every time it throbs. He ends up limping over to the dresser to try and steady himself, and wrangles himself into a faded, oversized Stanford shirt and some soft sweatpants. There’s also a pair of boxers, which he’s unendingly grateful for, because he’s grimy everywhere and is hating it with every fiber of his being. Sam is still standing outside the door when he limps back across the room to open it, and he gently places his folded clothes on top of the pile in the basket.

 

“How do you feel?” Sam says, craning his head around the laundry pile.

 

“My side and head hurt like a bitch, but otherwise I’m good.”

 

Sam nods. “Cas said that the headache is normal and the pain in your side should go away pretty soon.”

 

Oh, thank God.

 

“Yeah. Hey, I gotta go wash these,” Sam readjusts the laundry basket in his arms, “but let me know if you need anything.” 

 

Gabriel showers, which is weird with the still-lingering pain in his side. Heading back into the central atrium of the bunker, he finds Dean nursing a beer, feet up on the table, laptop balanced on his lap. He gives Gabriel a half-hearted wave but then goes back to surfing the Web. Sam is nowhere to be found, but he remember he was heading down stairs to do laundry. He heads back to the library instead.

 

The dusty spines of the books are soft under his fingers, and he gently pulls out one about angel lore. It’s unexpectedly heavy, and the dust that blankets it makes his nose twitch. He lugs it over to the table and cracks it open. Inside are pages and pages of long theories about angels and their manifestations, and intricate pencil drawings of seriously shredded guys with long hair and porcelain skin, wearing white robes and shrouded in light. Some are reprints of paintings, beautifully detailed and rich in color.

 

The stories and theories themselves are mostly ridiculous. Some of them Gabriel thinks he probably made up himself, just for kicks. They paint angels as innocent and pure, pacifists with high morals. Maybe that’s how it was supposed to be, he thinks.

 

Sam eventually comes downstairs and, without a word, opens some books of his own. It’s a quiet kind of symbiosis, really. They don’t talk or even really look at each other; they exist in their own little bubbles. Gabriel flips through the heavy pages, ancient paper rough between his fingers while Sam jots down notes and lists in a notepad.

 

“Hey, do you mind checking this? My Enochian is still a work in progress.”

 

Gabriel cranes his head to see, and then decides, no, fuck that, and scoots his chair over so it’s right next to Sam’s. Their shoulders brush, and he can faintly smell what he thinks is detergent.

 

He shouldn’t. This is a dangerous way to start thinking, he knows, but he’s always been - well, _appreciative_ of any kind of beauty. And Sam is very pretty, with the way his hair curls to frame his face, his clean-cut jaw, the elegant slope of his neck. The collar of his flannel shirt reveals a peek of his collarbones, defined but not too bony. They’d feel nice under his fingers, Gabriel thinks. He figures Sam would probably be muscular, but not one of those guys with huge, bulging muscles. Maybe more on the lean side, but still strong enough to maybe press him against a door and -

_Fuck. Get your damn head out of the gutter. Jeez._

Shaking his head to clear it, Gabriel tells himself to have his crisis later; after all, he’s got all the time in the world now that his official archangel status has been revoked. Except forthe foreseeable future he’s going to be going on crusades with Winchester and Co. -  especially Sam, it seems, since Dean isn’t exactly his biggest fan.

 

(He can’t blame him, not when he really thinks about it. He was - well, a big bag of dicks, to quote himself.)

 

Sam is rattling on about angels and Metatron and the angel tablet. It’s kind of hard to pay attentio though, because he’s only now realizing that Sam’s fingers are very long, and he can see his callouses, on the sides and tips of his fingers. _Oh my Dad._ His fingers look strong, but they’re deft too. They’re also pointing at a paragraph of text, and for a moment he thinks he’s _forgotten_ Enochian, and feels a flash of panic. His vision blurs for a second, but then it clears and he manages to remember a language he hasn’t spoken for literal millennia.

 

“That -“ his throat is dry as a bag of sand. His voice cracks a little, and he has to lick his lips and swallow heavily a few times before he can talk again. “That means _to fall.”_

 

Sam makes a face, then flips back through his notepad. “Really? I had it listed as ‘exiled.” Sam turns to look at him, and oh, okay, _eye contact,_ and he feels like there’s something white-hot slithering down his spine, warmth spreading in waves through his entire body, settling to a faint buzz just beneath his skin.

 

“It’s kind of an interchangeable term,” he says, voice rough. “Since Enochian is the angels’ language, they’re synonyms, really.”

 

Sam nods, makes a note. He’s _right there,_ and now Gabriel is wondering how the hell he’s never noticed Sam this way before. It’s kind of hard not to stare now. They’re so close, he can smell Sam’s Old Spice soap, and a hint of cologne. If he craned his head a little, and Sam tilted his head down…

 

Sam is going on about the roots and prefixes of Latin and their relation to Enochian, and he barely manages to stutter out responses when Sam needs a translation or a definition of some long-lost, forgotten word or phrase. Sam’s tawny, golden skin is perfect, save for a faint scar on his jaw that’s barely noticeable. Gabriel thinks about pressing kisses along the off-white skin; would it feel rough or smooth under his lips?

 

Sam turns to ask him something, and he can see the flecks of grey and brown in his eyes, and the pale pink color of his mouth, and the moles and freckles that dot his skin, and that’s it. He surges forward, craning his neck up and presses his mouth against Sam, who freezes for a moment. Gabriel’s heart feels like it’s stuttering to a stop, and he pulls back, about to apologize and then probably make a run for it. But then Sam’s hands are cradling his face, those callouses scrape along his cheeks, and he’s _so close,_ close enough that he can count Sam’s eyelashes, dark and fluttering. Now Sam is the one leaning in, and Gabriel thinks he’s about to _die_ with how close he is, and then he’s kissing Gabriel.

 

Sam’s mouth is soft and warm, and he keeps one hand against Gabriel’s jaw while his other moves to his hip, pulling him forward until their chairs are tangled together. _Fuck that,_ Gabriel thinks, and instead raises up and slides into Sam’s lap, throwing a leg either side of Sam’s hips. Sam’s hand migrates to his back, and his fingers are toying with the hem of his shirt, teasingly dipping underneath to brush his fingertips against his back. It sends electricity up Gabriel’s spine, setting a warm buzz aglow under his skin, sparking off his nerves. Sam is a good kisser, but he lets Gabriel take the lead. Gabriel has one hand tangled in Sam’s hair, which is _wonderfully_ soft and silky, and the other fisted in the front of his plaid flannel, fingers poking through the spaces between the buttons to graze the smooth, warm skin of his chest. He can feel the rise and feel of the hunter’s chest, and if he focuses, the steady, quick pulse of his heartbeat.

 

Sam is definitely interested in him, he knows, because he can feel his hard-on against the inside of his thigh. And he would love nothing more to rip the taller man’s clothes off and have his wicked way with him, but they’re not strangers, this is not a one-night stand. He’s going to have to deal with the consequences of whatever he does next, for once, and maybe having wild sex with the guy with whom he’s currently living in an underground bunker isn’t the best idea. He pulls back, breathing heavily. Sam looks up at him; pupils are blown wide, dark with arousal. His mouth is kiss-swollen, and there’s an indent in his lower lip where Gabriel playfully nipped him. He feels a little swell of pride; sex is something he’s always been _good_ at, and it’s been the same all through time and across the world. Sam tilts his head up, chasing Gabriel’s mouth.

 

Uncurling the hand he’s got tangled in Sam’s shirt, he presses a finger against Sam’s mouth. “Babe,” he breathes, “as much as I’d like to pin you down and fuck you until you’re screaming,”

 

Sam swallows heavily, and Gabriel momentarily forgets his point, mesmerized by the way his Adam’s apple catches and bobs. He tears his eyes away with some difficulty. “We need to talk this through, like adults.” Sam’s expression reminds him of a confused puppy. “Don’t give me that look. Lemme up.” Sam’s hand slides out from under his shirt. Gabriel scoots his chair back so there’s some space between them, straightening his shirt. Sam leans forward until his elbows are resting on Gabriel’s knees, his hands clasped together, tucked under his chin. It almost looks like he’s praying, if you squint and cross your eyes.

 

“I don’t want to fuck this up.” Gabriel knows Sam is the kind of person who will appreciate him being blunt. “I don’t want to ruin this by going too fast. I’ve made that mistake so many times,” he rubs a hand over his face nervously. “Because I - I want _more_ than sex, with you. I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

He peeks at Sam through his fingers. His golden skin is still flushed, and his hair is sticking out in different directions from when Gabriel had his hand buried in it.

 

“I do too,” Sam agrees. Gabriel’s heart _flutters_ at that. “You’re right, we should take it slow. Maybe get to know each other better before we start going at it like rabbits.”

 

Gabriel can’t suppress a little chuckle at that. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

 

Sam reaches over and takes Gabriel’s hand in his own; it’s rough, calloused from years of handling guns and knives, but warm and gentle nonetheless. Long fingers twine through his own, cradling his palm. Sam smiles at him, open and honest, a smile that shows his dimples.

 

Gabriel can’t help but smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that's it. i know it's rushed as hell and sort of an awkward ending, but i've really been struggling to write this. supernatural just hasn't been pulling me in like it did when i started writing this, and honestly i think i've really left the fandom. i very well might come back to this someday and keep writing it/expand. i'm definitely going to be making some changes to it sooner or later that will help with the flow now that i've finished it and know where it ends up.  
> writing this has been such an experience. it's really my first fic, especially my first long fic, and the first time i've written chapter by chapter. every single comment, every kudos, every little bit of feedback or love i've received has absolutely made my day. i love all you guys for sticking with me through this. supernatural will always be one of my first fandoms, and will always have a place in my heart for that. writing tlrh has been one of the most amazing things i've ever done, and i'm proud of where it ended up. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at girlwithacardigan. be warned though, it's a multifandom garbage fire.
> 
> special special thanks to my beta, cliophilyra. i could not have done this without her. go check her stuff out; she's an amazing writer.
> 
> so. thank you from the bottom of my heart. you guys are the best.
> 
> x olivia.


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